


all this riot of light

by asael



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Crimson Flower Route, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25079074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asael/pseuds/asael
Summary: When he was young, Sylvain joined the Black Eagles and ended up fighting alongside Edelgard. Now, years after the war, he journeys to Almyra to help negotiate a peace treaty. There he finds a familiar face, once he hasn't seen in a long time - and perhaps while he's making peace between their countries, he'll be able to find a tiny bit of peace for himself.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 48
Kudos: 308





	all this riot of light

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be posted for Sylvain's birthday, but life happened and I did not finish in time. I set it aside to focus on other projects but then found myself coming back because I kept thinking about these two and wanting to finish what I'd started. Though I've written this ship before, this is the first time I've really dug into them as deeply as I'd like, and I had a great time doing it. Thanks for reading & I hope you enjoy it!

“Almyra, huh?”

Sylvain looked around himself at the rolling plains, the open sky above. The sun beat down on them, and though it was still early morning, he knew it was going to be hot. A far cry from the cold, wet lands of northern Faerghus, where the Gautier holdings were. Suddenly he was very glad he’d traded his armor for the loose, breathable garb that those of the western Alliance lands seemed to prefer. He’d have melted otherwise.

“Well, we’d better get moving. They’re expecting us in the capital pretty soon.”

He glanced back at his retinue, a small troop of soldiers and diplomats led by a few Almyran-born guides. They were led by a stiff officer, a man old enough to be Sylvain’s father. Nominally he was under Sylvain’s command, as the highest-ranking lord in the delegation, but it was very clear to Sylvain that the man disapproved of him. He barely deigned to listen to Sylvain’s orders, and Sylvain was almost entirely certain that Edelgard had ordered him to keep Sylvain out of trouble.

Which he would have been offended by, except after everything that had happened in Fódlan he supposed it was only fair.

The officer stared him down for a long moment, as if to say _They follow me, not you_ , and then nodded. Sylvain suppressed his sigh and smiled instead.

It would get better once they reached the capital. Hopefully.

The journey took longer than it was supposed to, and for once it wasn’t Sylvain’s fault. It was the weather first - a sudden thunderstorm, which their Almyran guides were unsurprised by.

“Normal at this time of year,” one said in his decent, if accented, Fódlan. “We’ll wait until it’s over.”

And so they did. After that, it was one of the lesser diplomat’s horses throwing a shoe. Then another who got a terrible case of food poisoning - not from the Almyran food, which he’d refused to eat, but from the provisions he’d insisted on bringing all the way from Enbarr. Sylvain could find little sympathy for him, but he was a high-ranking member of the Adrestian Merchant Guild, and so they had no choice but to wait for him to recover.

All of which combined to mean that they arrived at the palace, the center of the Almyran capital, days later than had been planned.

“Will they be offended?” Sylvain overheard one of the younger diplomats say. “I’ve heard the most terrible things. If they’re angry that we’re late, we might be walking straight into a trap.”

Sylvain rolled his eyes. “Don’t believe all the nonsense rumors you hear.” The young man straightened abruptly, face flushing. He’d clearly not thought that Sylvain could hear him, and Sylvain smiled, an easy thing with just an edge of mockery. “They used to say that men of Sreng ate people, after all. And yet here I am, completely intact.”

The young diplomat stuttered an apology, which Sylvain nodded at, though inwardly he found himself annoyed.

Could Edelgard not have found diplomats who would come to this meeting unbiased? It was the first time Almyra had accepted an ambassador from Fódlan in hundreds of years - and indeed, _they_ were the ones who had requested it. There was no chance of a peace treaty if he couldn’t even trust his own diplomats to treat the Almyrans like people instead of imaginary brutes.

It was only because of Almyra’s new king that they were here at all. King Khalid wanted peace, or so his messenger had said, bringing an invitation for representatives of Emperor Edelgard to come to Almyra in order to negotiate a treaty. 

Sylvain didn’t think the previous Almyran king had ever even sent an official ambassador to Fódlan. He’d done his research before embarking on this journey, and it seemed like the only contact Almyra and Fódlan had in the past couple hundred years had been border skirmishes. Raids from the Almyran side, occasional campaigns in return from the Alliance, but treaties? Negotiations? None at all.

But the new king had ascended his throne only in the last couple of years, and apparently he had a different attitude towards relations with Fódlan. This wasn’t the first time Sylvain had heard whispers and rumors about these treaty negotiations being a trap, after so many years of conflict, but he judged them unlikely at best. What would be the point of bringing them all this way only to kill them? It wasn’t as if the Almyrans would get anything out of such a ruse.

If only he could convince everyone else of that. But most of his companions had never left Fódlan before, some never even leaving Adrestia. Sylvain was the only one who had any experience with other cultures, and he knew that was a big reason Edelgard had sent him.

Not the only reason, though.

He pushed those thoughts away with an internal sigh. They were approaching the gates of the palace, it was time to pay attention and prepare himself.

The walls around the palace were high and thick, but they were beautiful as well - a sign that the palace itself, though prepared for an attack and suitable for defense, had not faced any such situation in some time. The walls were smooth and unmarred, and inlaid along them at regular intervals were carved figures - animals, people, landscapes. Beautiful and detailed works of art carved right into the stone itself, though Sylvain did notice that all ended well short of the top of the wall, and above them was only a smooth expanse of stone with no hand or footholds.

It was difficult to see the palace behind the walls, which could only mean that the palace grounds themselves were massive. Spires and parapets were visible here and there, a kind of architecture that Sylvain was only familiar with from their journey through Almyra. There was nothing like it in Fódlan.

Arrayed before the gates was a battalion of warriors. Wyvern riders stood at the back on their mounts, the large beasts under strict control. Before them stood archers, mounted and on foot, and warriors with axes and swords. They were dressed in strange Almyran uniforms, the colors of the flag, and it all combined to make an intimidating and impressive effect.

As they approached, a man in much fancier clothing stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice boomed loudly across the square - naturally gifted, but surely trained, too. The king’s herald.

“Travelers from Fódlan, we greet you in the name of King Khalid, son of Hashem, the ruler and protector of Almyra. We welcome you in peace, with open arms.”

His Fódlan was slightly accented, but otherwise perfect, and he spoke with no hesitation. Then their king stepped forward to the front of his battalion and greeted them, and his speech had no accent at all.

Of course it didn’t. Because standing before them, in elaborate Almyran garb with a thin crown upon his brow, was Claude von Riegan.

***

_King Khalid_ , Sylvain thought to himself later, when they’d been shown to their quarters and given time to wash up and make themselves presentable before dinner with the king’s court.

He hadn’t known. None of them had - not even Edelgard. She would have told him if she’d known, he was sure of that, and if Hubert had known, she would have.

Surely Hubert had a few spies in Almyra, though Sylvain wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that there were _only_ a few, that his sources of information were limited. And really, when Sylvain took the time to think about it, it made sense.

No one knew what had become of Claude after Edelgard defeated him and took the Alliance. She’d spared him and he’d left, and though Hubert had mentioned once or twice that he doubted that would be the last they’d see of him, he’d never turned up again. They had won their war and united Fódlan, and Claude - Claude had disappeared.

When they’d gotten word that a new king of Almyra had ascended, why would anyone have considered that it might be Claude? Of course Sylvain knew Claude must be of mixed blood - all it took was a look at him to know that. He’d come out of nowhere to become Duke Riegan’s heir, and there had been all sorts of rumors about that. But few had guessed that his dark skin was Almyran in origin, and none at all had suggested he might be… what? A prince?

Whatever he had been before, now he was a king.

Sylvain was not entirely sure what to make of that. Claude - _Khalid_ \- had greeted them prettily, with a smile on his face and so many welcoming words. Sylvain had, for the first few moments, been frozen in shock, but he’d recovered well. He’d offered his own polite greeting, complete with one of the few Almyran phrases he’d learned over the course of their journey - _We thank you for your hospitality._ Claude had accepted the thanks graciously, said a few more words about wishing for peace, and they’d gone their separate ways.

It was only now that Sylvain wondered if any of the diplomats or soldiers who’d come with him had recognized Claude. 

Some had participated in the war, fighting under Edelgard’s banners, but would any of them have met Duke Riegan face-to-face? It was fairly unlikely, in truth. It could well be that Sylvain was the only person who looked at the King of Almyra and saw Claude von Riegan - it was certainly true that he was the only one who saw a boy he’d known in school, a boy who had beaten him at chess four times out of five, a boy who’s smile was as false as his own. 

Had Claude known he was coming? He hadn’t seemed surprised, not for a moment. Sylvain figured it would be far more unlikely that Claude _hadn’t_ known - he hadn’t been called ‘Master Tactician’ for nothing, and his skill at keeping the Alliance neutral and intact for so long had been awfully impressive. Probably he’d had people reporting everything about the delegation the moment they’d set foot in Almyra. Maybe even before that, in Enbarr. Unlike Hubert, who would find it difficult to create connections in Almyra that could blossom into a spy network, Claude would have no such difficulty in Fódlan. 

He hadn’t warned them about who he was, but why would he? In truth, Claude had no reason to feel affection towards Emperor Edelgard or any of her followers. It didn’t matter that he and Sylvain had once played games together, gossiped about their classmates, traded casual jabs. It didn’t matter that once, and only once, Sylvain had coaxed a kiss from him behind the greenhouse, and afterwards Claude had laughed and said he knew better than to go down _that_ path. 

In the end, they’d fought on opposite sides of a war, and Sylvain’s emperor had taken everything from Claude. He’d smiled afterwards and thanked her for his life, but Sylvain had known enough to see how the smile did not reach his eyes. How instead they were filled with sadness, and frustration, and anger. 

Why tell them who he was? Why hand over even the smallest of advantages? Claude, of all people, was not the sort to do that. 

Indeed, now that Sylvain knew who the king of Almyra was, he could only be amazed that Claude had reached out to them for peace. Reached out to end another war, hundreds of years long, with the woman who had taken everything from him. 

Then again, it seemed like he’d made it out okay, Sylvain thought with some wry amusement. After all, kings ranked rather higher than dukes. 

He wondered how their negotiations would go. He wondered who Claude was now. 

He wondered if he had ever really known who Claude was. 

____

***

That evening there was a feast, a celebration to welcome the delegation from Fódlan. The palace’s great hall was filled with Almyran nobles and generals, the tables were heaped with food, and they were treated to skilled displays of dance, music, and combat. It was loud and lively and entirely different than the courtly rituals of Enbarr, and a number of the diplomats who had arrived with Sylvain were visibly uncomfortable.

Sylvain quite liked it. It wasn’t so dissimilar from the celebrations in Sreng, and he was coming to believe that other countries in general were far better at having a good time than Fódlan. He ate his fill of strange but delicious Almyran cuisine, listened to the musicians, remarked on the dancers’ skill. And when, partway through the evening, a servant leaned over and whispered into his ear, “The king would be honored if you would join him at his table,” Sylvain went.

The Fódlan delegation had been given a table to themselves, ostensibly for their own comfort but also, Sylvain was sure, so that Claude could observe them. Claude had always been clever and canny, and his sharp eyes would quickly pick out the small things: those signs of discomfort. The way they deferred to Sylvain, but did not treat him particularly respectfully. The quiet divisions between those who had come to enjoy what they’d seen of Almyra and those who still thought the land was full of savages.

He did not know how Claude would use that knowledge. Even when they’d been students together, he might not have been able to guess, and now he had no idea. But the only way to learn anything was to walk directly into the fire, and in any case Sylvain figured Claude would be a more pleasant companion than most. He always had been.

The king’s table was set on a dais above the rest, giving him the ability to look down upon his court. Sylvain had observed a certain amount of comings and goings - Claude’s councillors, perhaps, or maybe his spies, coming to sit at his table and talk to him before returning to their seats. And now it was his turn.

He grinned at Claude as he sat down, that familiar friendly expression that meant nothing. Claude smiled back, matching him exactly.

Claude was draped in Almyran silks, patterned and lovely. A crown rested on his brow, jewels graced his neck and fingers, but his eyes were the same - that clear, gorgeous green that always seemed to see more than they were meant to. That green that Sylvain had complimented once, whispered words in Claude’s ear a moment before he stole the single kiss they’d ever shared.

“Been awhile, Claude,” Sylvain said, his smile not slipping for a moment. “Or is that rude? Should I call you Khalid now?”

“How nostalgic,” Claude said with a quiet laugh. “No one calls me by that name anymore, so go right ahead. It’s got good memories.”

“I was pretty surprised to see you standing there with that crown on your head, I’ve gotta admit. Seems like you’ve outplayed me and Hubert both.” Sylvain leaned back, casual in the elegant chairs that graced the king’s table. He didn’t look directly at Claude, but all his attention was on him.

“This time,” Claude said, and there was the slightest flash of a knife in that smile of his. “It’s only fair, I’d say, since you outplayed me so thoroughly last time we met.”

Derdriu. Sylvain remembered the bite of the sea breeze, the defeat written into the faces of the Alliance soldiers. He remembered Claude smiling, his eyes terrible.

Just one in a long line of awful things Sylvain had done to those he had once considered friends. Claude, at least, had survived. Claude, at least, had not been someone he’d grown up next to, someone he’d loved dearly. But somehow the knowledge of that did not help.

“But no hard feelings,” Claude said with a shrug. “Your Emperor let me flee with my life, and - well, it’s been an uphill battle, to be sure, but as you can see things have turned out well for me. More wine?”

He gestured for a servant to refill Sylvain’s cup. Sylvain had already drunk a bit more than he should, but he took another sip anyway. It helped to ease the sting of his memories, the sunny days at Garreg Mach where he’d match wits with Claude, admire his archery, wonder what combination of words and smiles might lead Claude to melt in his arms like so many had before.

He’d never figured it out.

His thoughts were growing darker, traveling along well-worn paths. He had not thought to see a figure from his past step out into the light again - most were dead and gone, some by his own hand. The moment he’d left the Blue Lions for Edelgard’s house, his path had been set, and all the regret in the world could do nothing for him now.

Usually when he felt like this he’d find a warm body to lose himself in. Women were easier, all he had to do was smile and be charming and dangle the possibility of a crest-bearing child without ever saying it aloud. No matter how Edelgard tried to change Fódlan, that hadn’t changed yet. Men were more difficult, and Sylvain didn’t bother going to the effort that often, but that didn’t mean never.

It was the easiest way to forget for a little while. Sylvain, being no idiot, knew exactly how self-destructive and stupid it was, but what did it matter? If anyone deserved that sort of thing, it was him, wasn’t it?

But he couldn’t do it here. The guilt, the memories were beginning to bubble up, and there was no way to get rid of them so easily. 

That was part of the reason he was here, after all. It was certainly true that Sylvain had more experience than most with different cultures, with peace talks and treaties - he’d almost single-handedly negotiated peace with Sreng, though there was a lot left to be done there. And when he’d had something to work toward, something to focus on, everything had been a little bit easier.

Then he’d returned to Enbarr, to report to his Emperor, and it had all gotten much more difficult. Without delicate peace negotiations to occupy his mind, he returned to old patterns, foolish and self-destructive. When the Almyran envoy arrived, it had been shortly after Sylvain was nearly challenged to an actual duel over a woman whose name he could barely remember.

So he figured that for Edelgard, it was two birds, one stone. Send one of her few nobles with foreign relations experience to negotiate another peace treaty, and at the same time get rid of the man currently throwing her court into chaos. She’d practically said so, even, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d thought this would be good - would be a change of pace, a way to take his mind off all of his regrets.

He hadn’t been expecting to find Claude here. One of the few living reminders of the boy he had been before he joined the Black Eagles. Before he walked away from his home, his country, his childhood friends.

And he couldn’t even lose himself in someone’s warm embrace. Sylvain might be foolish, might be self-destructive, but he knew better than to risk peace between two countries just because he didn’t feel good about himself.

He smiled at Claude and set his wineglass down. He needed to be careful, especially around someone as clever as Claude. “It really looks like you landed on your feet. King of Almyra, huh? I kind of guessed _Almyra_ , but the _king_ part… that one I really didn’t see coming.”

“We’ve all come a long way, haven’t we?” Claude grinned at him, eyes sharp. “And you know, if Edelgard hadn’t let me keep my head, these peace talks would never be happening. One good turn deserves another.” There was an edge to it, and for a brief moment Sylvain wondered if his blind, prejudiced diplomats might be right. If this was all part of a larger plan, a revenge scheme for everything that Edelgard and her allies had taken from him.

If it was, they were all thoroughly in Claude’s power now, and therefore all doomed. There was no point in overthinking it.

“That’s awfully lucky for us,” Sylvain said, answering Claude’s grin with his own. “And hey, I’ve always wanted to visit Almyra. I’m looking forward to sampling all the hospitality you’ve got to offer.” He winked, and received a genuinely amused smile in return.

“It’s good to see you again, Sylvain,” Claude said. “I truly hope you enjoy your time here.”

***

And in truth, Sylvain did find himself charmed by Almyra - its food, its customs, its people. Claude organized outings for them, introducing the Fódlan delegation to Almyran culture, and Sylvain never passed up an opportunity to learn what he could.

It wasn’t like Sreng at all, but it was _different_. There was always something new to see, do, try. It kept him busy, occupied his thoughts, just as it had in Sreng. And then, of course, there were the treaty negotiations - careful and deliberate things. So many Almyran nobles wanted their concerns heard, and the added necessity of translation slowed everything down. It would take months to settle everything, but then, that was what Sylvain had expected. The only real difference between politics like these and actual war was the amount of bodies.

But after years of war, that was not a negligible difference.

And so Sylvain threw himself into learning Almyran culture. Not just for the pleasure of it, but to make his job easier. When they served food flavored with unfamiliar spices, most of his fellow diplomats picked at their food or politely declined. Sylvain ate, and complimented the preparation, and won a smile from the lord who was hosting them that evening. When they were taken to a festival, full of music and dancing, Sylvain smiled and - through their translator - convinced a lovely young maiden to teach him one of the dances.

He didn’t take her back to his rooms at the palace. He didn’t indulge himself at all. Though Almyran culture seemed less strict about such things than Fódlan was, Sylvain wouldn’t jeopardize his goals here. They were inching slowly towards a proper treaty, and the men who had come along with him were putting it in enough peril as it was.

Oh, they tried - or many of them did, in any case. He learned that a few had been to Brigid before, and so they were at least aware that a world outside Fódlan existed. Others were excited to be here, open to new experience and working hard to move past prejudice. They reached out to merchants and soldiers, curried favor with nobles, and - like Sylvain - did their best to create a treaty that would please both Fódlan and Almyra.

But not everyone thought like that. There were a few who had not changed their opinions of Almyrans, who believed that they were among savage warriors who would turn on them at any moment. They tried to work the treaty in Fódlan’s favor, tried to insert clauses and amendments that would benefit only their country - and in most cases, their interests in particular.

Sylvain knew he wasn’t the only one dealing with this. Claude spent little time with the delegation outside of the official sessions, but Sylvain had caught a carefully-carved smile on his face while talking to an Almyran diplomat more than once. It was oddly familiar, the careful grin that Claude had sometimes worn at the monastery when he was annoyed but wouldn’t show it.

So he was having to keep his men in line, too. That made sense - the bad blood between their countries went back hundreds of years, and surely there were plenty of Almyrans who might not want a treaty at all, or might only want one that favored them. It was oddly comforting to know that, even though it meant that negotiations stretched out longer than necessary. At least Sylvain wasn’t the only one getting headaches because of it.

For all that, though, he found himself enjoying Almyra. The food, the music, the lively people. The amusement on their faces whenever he attempted a conversation in Almyran, no doubt sounding like a child just learning to speak. They weren’t bad people - they were just people, like anyone. Like the people of Fódlan, of Sreng, of Duscur, of Brigid. Just people, in all their awful and wonderful variations.

And Sylvain wanted peace, and so he worked at it.

They were deep into summer now, and the Almyran days were thickly hot in a way that Sylvain found difficult to endure. The palace was built to catch the breeze, to cool off those within it, but even with that and all the cool drinks the servants could bring him it was a little too hot. Sylvain suffered through the days, looking forward to the nights. After the sun set and the air cooled, the stars were so bright and clear overhead that one could almost reach out and catch hold of them.

As he showed himself willing to enjoy Almyran customs and learn their culture, Sylvain had begun collecting a variety of invitations to evening entertainments. Dinners, musical performances, dancing. Likely all attempts to get him to consider their interests in the treaty negotiations, but Sylvain was familiar with that sort of political maneuvering. He went anyway, and often enjoyed himself, and it was always a nice distraction.

But not tonight. Today, his delegation and Claude’s Almyran diplomats had been cloistered in a long and heated session. They were hammering out the details of where exactly the border between their nations would lie, and as simple as that seemed, it absolutely was not. After a long day of that, and anticipating more tomorrow, Sylvain had sent polite refusals to all the invitations he’d received.

He was mentally exhausted, but physically brimming with energy. He briefly, painfully thought of Felix - of how he’d always been ready to spar, on the few occasions Sylvain had felt like this back at Garreg Mach. Felix would fight with him until they were both exhausted, until Sylvain could drop into bed without a thought for anything but rest.

Of course, most of the time he hadn’t sought out Felix. Most of the time he’d found a girl instead, and fucked his way to exhaustion.

He toyed with the idea for a moment. It wouldn’t be difficult, but for once the thought of it seemed immensely tiring. The thought of trotting out those moves he was so familiar with, the dance of seduction that was second nature… it didn’t appeal. Maybe it was the language barrier, maybe the long days spend talking people into and out of things. He couldn’t say, exactly, only that he didn’t want to.

And that was how Sylvain found himself walking through the palace gardens.

They were beautiful, even at night. Parts of them seemed to be designed just for this, with night-blooming flowers that filled the air with sweet scents and lanterns illuminating the paths just enough to make it easy to walk while also providing an illusion of privacy.

Sylvain wasn’t the only one in the gardens, but his limited command of Almyran meant that he was mainly left alone - or perhaps it was really that everyone else had come here to be alone, too. No one offered him more than a nod or a few soft words of greeting, and so he was left with his own weary thoughts, roaming the darkened paths with stars glittering overhead.

Until he turned a corner and came upon Claude.

Claude was alone, without his usual contingent of guards and attendants. He was laying on the soft grass of a small open area that was tucked away in a distant corner of the gardens, a place it was likely that few ever came. At first, Sylvain did not realize it was him - he was lit only by moonlight, and it spilled across his features with startling beauty. He looked different in that light, not like a king at all. More like something out of a story, something mythical - a god or a spirit or a trickster.

Sylvain wondered if he ought to leave, but when he moved, his feet scuffed the gravel of the garden path. Claude’s eyes flickered to him, and he did not look surprised.

“Sylvain,” Claude said, “you’re out late.” He didn’t sit up.

“Needed some air,” Sylvain said with a smile. He let himself drift closer. This was the first time he’d been alone with Claude since he arrived. He wasn’t sure what it meant.

Though he and Claude had never really been close, they’d been something like friends, once upon a time. After he’d arrived here and discovered who King Khalid was, Sylvain had wondered if they might resume that - if Claude would want to. But apparently he had not. He’d issued Sylvain no invitation, made no attempt to speak to him again after the feast. When Sylvain saw him, it was at the treaty negotiations, hard at work.

And really, was that such a surprise? Claude was a new king, and a busy one, and Sylvain -

Well. The last time they’d met, Sylvain had been his enemy.

“You and me both,” Claude said, smiling at him. Claude’s smiles were almost never real, so Sylvain knew it meant nothing. “Things got awfully heated today, but I think we’re making progress.”

Claude hadn’t made any move to leave, and he hadn’t tried to send Sylvain away, so Sylvain moved closer. At the edge of the grass, he paused, and then sat next to Claude. Not too close, but near enough that they could talk.

“I think you’re right,” he said. “We’ll have the main articles figured out in the next few weeks, and then it’s just the details.”

“Hmm,” Claude said, still looking at Sylvain. “That seems optimistic. Are you looking forward to leaving?”

“No,” Sylvain said, and realized he meant it. He liked Almyra - liked the people, the cuisine, the way that everything was different and yet, at the heart of it, familiar. People were people everywhere, after all. He liked that the only people who knew him here were the delegation that had arrived with him and Claude. No one else had preconceived notions about Margrave Gautier, his crest or his reputation or the things that he had done.

It wasn’t a fresh start. There was no such thing. But, like Sreng had, it lifted a tiny bit of the weight off his shoulders. And what he was doing here - peace between his country and another of its ancient enemies - meant something.

“Our country’s won you over, huh?” Claude said. He was smiling. “Was it the great food or the pretty girls?”

“Little bit of both,” Sylvain said with his own matching grin. “Honestly, I can’t see why you ever left. Almyrans are way better at having a good time.” His voice was light, conversational, but it was something he’d wondered. Why had Claude gone to Fódlan to begin with, if he’d been in line for the throne here? Why had he stayed through the war, fought so hard for the Alliance? Claude was a mystery that Sylvain had never been able to solve, and coming to Almyra had only added layers to that mystery.

He wasn’t expecting an honest answer. Not from Claude, who had always responded to probing questions with meaningless answers, sliding right out from under them, giving nothing away. But Claude looked at him, his smile turning into something more measuring, and Sylvain realized - this was what he had hidden all that time. Almyra, his place there, the royal blood in his veins.

And now Sylvain had seen him with a crown on his brow and a country under his hand. What, then, did he have left to hide?

“I needed to get away,” Claude said. “I wanted to make a new world, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it here. I figured, maybe start with Fódlan - start fresh.” He shrugged. “I was pretty young.”

They all had been. But knowing that Claude had such lofty goals, even so young - that he had wanted change badly enough to leave behind everything he’d known - Sylvain wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

When he had been that young, he’d been lost in his own anger, his pain, his wish to hurt the world the way the world had hurt him. But was he really any different now? There was something ugly within him, something that felt almost _jealous_. Jealous that Claude had been able to dream such dreams, that whatever he’d been through hadn’t crushed it out of him. 

Once upon a time, that would have been all Sylvain could focus on. Now, though - he was older. He may not have been any wiser, but his emotions did not spark so brightly, did not burn so hard.

And in any case, it seemed rather petty to be jealous, when he had been one of the people who’d taken that dream away from Claude.

“We were all pretty young,” Sylvain said, and he felt that familiar ache. He’d been young when he’d made his choice, leaving his childhood friends for Edelgard’s Black Eagles. Young enough that he’d thought only of what it could do for him. He’d believed, _still_ believed that the crest system needed to be destroyed. He just had not imagined all that he would have to personally destroy for that.

The Alliance felt like the least of that, in his heart of hearts, because Sylvain was a deeply selfish person. The war was over and done with, and what they’d done could not be undone. Still…

“Sorry,” he said, leaning back on the grass, looking at the stars above because he couldn’t look at Claude. “You know. For how it all ended up.”

Claude laughed, and try as he might, Sylvain could not detect the edge of bitterness that he knew was there. Claude was good. He always had been, but it seemed that becoming the King of Almyra had forced him to refine that to something close to perfection.

“For invading the Alliance and taking our autonomy? I’m not the one to apologize to for that. House Riegan is gone for good.”

Claude had been the last heir. After his disappearance, after the war ended, Edelgard had given the Riegan lands to House Daphnel to oversee. She’d said, at the time, that they would be returned to a proper Riegan heir if one materialized - but given that Sylvain knew her ultimate goal was to dismantle the nobility entirely, he also knew that wouldn’t last.

And it seemed Claude had no intention of returning, in any case.

“Besides,” Claude said, “there’s nothing to be done about the past.” He was silent for a long moment as they both looked up at the stars, and when he spoke again his voice was soft. “I didn’t achieve my dream there, but I can now. I wasn’t happy with how it went down, but - at least Edelgard wants peace. At least she’s willing to reach out. So my dream hasn’t been washed down the drain entirely.”

Sylvain heard Claude move. He felt Claude’s eyes on him, probing, measuring.

“But you know, I really did want it to be me.”

He turned then too, onto his side, so that he could look at Claude. He couldn’t read anything in those green eyes, shadowed by the night, but he could give himself another moment to be distracted by the beauty of the moonlight on Claude’s skin.

“You regret it?” Sylvain said. He didn’t expect a response. He expected Claude to slip out of the conversation, maneuver it in another direction, just as he’d expected Claude to avoid his question earlier. That was always how it had been.

But Claude had changed.

“I do,” he said, and it seemed to come out easily. His eyes met Sylvain’s, and they did not waver for a moment. He’d changed, and he’d only become more dangerous because of it. “I regret quite a bit of it. I wanted to keep the Alliance peaceful, neutral - but if I had been more heartless, I might have kept us safer.” He smiles at that, a thin and dangerous thing. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

Sylvain, being unable to speak Almyran, was not privy to most of the undercurrents of Claude’s court. Even so, he’d seen enough to know that while Claude was as compassionate towards his people as he had ever been, he was considerably less so towards the Almyran nobles. Even in his short stay there, someone had come to an unfortunate fate due to spoiled food - or so the official story was. But of course, everyone knew it was poison, and Sylvain knew that the noble felled by it was one who held land near Fódlan’s Locket. One who opposed the treaty entirely.

One whose heir was much more amenable to it.

It seemed that Claude had indeed learned his lesson. Sylvain wondered if that was the point Claude was trying to make - that no matter how they had once known each other, Claude would sacrifice him in an instant.

But then Claude spoke again.

His eyes were on the stars. His voice was quieter, and there was something to it - a sadness, maybe. Something Sylvain had never seen before. “Even now, I feel guilt every day that I was unable to do more. Judith fell to your swords - Hilda as well. They deserved better. It was my fault that they didn’t survive. My failure.”

It hit Sylvain right in the heart. A blow he could not anticipate, could not prepare for. He had been there at each of those battles, fighting with Edelgard’s army. He hadn’t killed either of Claude’s allies himself, but did that matter? He remembered Hilda, the ways she was so like Claude. She’d flirt with him, but never allowed him to get close. She was clever, and pretty, and she and Claude had genuinely seemed to care for one another.

And Edelgard’s soldiers had killed her, because she had been blocking their path to Claude.

He’d never known Judith, but it was clear she’d meant something to Claude. And she’d died too, another death in a long string of them.

Sylvain sighed, let his eyes slide shut. There were too many deaths. Too much that weighed on his shoulders. Even now, he believed that Edelgard was making a better Fódlan - was opening it up to the world, destroying the useless crest worship, changing the class system. But he could believe that and still believe that the cost may not have been worth it.

Because, of course, it had been achingly personal for Sylvain, who had destroyed everything he had been meant to protect, once upon a time. It had been personal for Claude too, who had lost the Alliance, lost his friends. He hadn’t known, when he began to walk this path, what it would come to.

He could still remember seeing Felix on the battlefield. The way he turned away, disgust in his eyes. He could still remember Ingrid, her look of betrayal. If he’d been a better man, perhaps he would have ended their lives himself, but he could not bring himself to do it. Instead he had simply let them die at the swords of the Empire, and as much as he believed in Edelgard, that was still something he could never forgive himself for.

So long ago, he’d always felt like he saw echoes of himself in Claude. The same careful smile, the same glib tongue that deceived others so easily. Different secrets, but buried in the same way.

And Claude was still his echo. Or perhaps he was Claude’s. An endless echo of guilt, of grief, of regret that things could not have been different.

He spoke before he realized he was doing it. It was the darkness, perhaps, or the stars above. It was Claude next to him, aching with a pain that matched his. It was the weight of this burden, carried too long, crushing him beneath it.

“Me too,” he said, “it was my fault that my friends died. I can never make up for that. Some nights I can barely sleep.”

He’d never said it to anyone before. Never said it aloud, never even put words to it in his own head. It was like tearing out a rotting piece of himself and holding it up before him to admire. He said it, and immediately he regretted saying it, regretted that moment of honesty. And to have it with Claude of all people, Claude who was too clever, Claude who could be dangerous -

But when he opened his eyes, Claude was looking at him through the darkness and there was no danger in his eyes. There was only understanding laced with pain, a deep and horrible sympathy.

Sylvain wanted to fall into it. He wanted to let go, to let himself be honest, to finally expose all the guilt festering inside him. Maybe it would make it easier, to share it with someone who knew. Maybe it would _fix_ him.

Nothing could fix him.

His lips curved into a smile, he tilted his head. “If you have that problem too, maybe we could help each other sleep.” He winked.

It was grotesque, inappropriate. It turned the intimacy and honesty between them into something sordid, tore away any chance of connection. Claude would rightfully be angry, would stand up and walk away, would treat him with the disdain he deserved - 

Claude began to laugh.

Sylvain stared, caught flat-footed. Laughter, sure - angry laughter, cruel laughter, and then ‘you’re just as disgusting as everyone says’, he’d heard that before. But this was something else. This was honest laughter, shoulders shaking, lips curving into a smile. This was Claude, grinning at him, nothing but amused.

“ _Wow_ ,” he said when he’d caught his breath, “no wonder Edelgard kicked you out of her court and sent you all the way here. You’d be bound to start another war, doing things like that in Enbarr.”

Sylvain didn’t quite know what to say, especially because that was true. He’d forgotten - or maybe he’d never quite understood - how different Claude was. The way he looked at things, the way he reacted to things. Part of Sylvain hated that, because it made him impossible to predict, and thus impossible to fool properly. Because it reminded him too much of himself.

Part of him liked it.

Despite himself, his smile had become something more real. “Who wouldn’t want to start a war over someone as irresistible as me?” he said, and was rewarded with another of Claude’s smiles.

“I can think of a few people, and Edelgard’s probably at the top of the list.” Claude looked at him for a long, silent moment, eyes clear and assessing. “I’ll tell you what helps me sleep. Building something better.” He looked away, smile sliding from his face. “It can’t make up for my mistakes, but it reminds me that I can still do things that are worthwhile. But I don’t think you need me to tell you that.”

No. Claude was right about that. He remembered how it had been in Sreng, how the work towards peace had felt grueling and endless and yet still worthwhile. How it had been easier to sleep.

He’d been haunted still by the lives he’d taken, the friends he destroyed. But in the darkest of moments, he knew that there was some worth to his life - that if he could do this much, he could change people’s lives for the better.

It had been good while it lasted, but it hadn’t lasted forever. Edelgard had asked him, back then, if he wanted to be named the ambassador to Sreng. He’d said no, feeling a responsibility to his lands, to those he had fought alongside.

He thought now that he should have said yes. That it might have helped to continue that work, to have something to do, to genuinely feel like he was making change. He hadn’t felt like that in Gautier, overseeing his lands. He hadn’t felt it in Enbarr either, playing courtier in Edelgard’s new Imperial court.

He felt it here. Not always, not when he had to deal with petty squabbles amongst the other diplomats or endless circuitous discussions with Claude’s officials. But when they successfully decided upon a statute of the treaty, when they agreed upon a concession or a difficult clause, he felt it.

“My dream was always to open Fódlan up,” said Claude. He sat up, looking down at Sylvain in the grass. Sylvain could not read the expression on his face. “To make peace between our countries. To reach out and find an open hand, instead of a closed fist.” He grinned then. “If I joined you in bed for any reason it would be for the role you’re playing in that. Fostering international peace and understanding is extremely sexy.”

Sylvain laughed, and watched as Claude pushed himself up from the ground, standing above him. “How do you know I didn’t just come here to cause trouble?”

“Because if you had, you’d have used that line of yours on someone who can’t see right through you.” Claude was smiling still, gazing down at him, and Sylvain felt a surge of something that was part desire and part resentment. Claude was right, and that annoyed him, but - 

At the same time, it was refreshing to be seen through so easily. The only other one who managed it on a regular basis these days was Edelgard’s beloved advisor Byleth - and Sylvain had taken to avoiding them a long time ago. Now he remembered why, and he could not quite decide whether he felt the same about it when Claude did it.

“Good night, Sylvain,” Claude said.

“Good night, Your Majesty,” Sylvain said, just to see Claude roll his eyes in amusement, barely visible in the darkness of the garden.

Then he was alone, with only the stars above and the grass beneath him and his thoughts to haunt him. But they were quieter now, less insistent. He thought that perhaps he could sleep.

***

Finalizing the treaty took longer than Sylvain had expected, but he couldn’t find it within himself to be annoyed by that. Claude’s words, their meeting in the garden, stuck with him. It didn’t fix anything - of course, nothing was that easy - but it reminded Sylvain of the perspective that he seemed to have lost somewhere along the way.

So he kept working, and he savored the small victories.

Claude noticeably thawed towards him, which was surprising and gratifying. He called Sylvain to his table sometimes at dinner, and they spoke of the negotiations and of other, much more frivolous things. Claude even invited him to tea occasionally, private moments in his sitting room. Sylvain could not have said with certainty why he’d become more friendly, but if he had to guess - well, it was probably because Claude knew Sylvain had not become unrecognizable.

He knew that they could talk as they once had, or close to it. He knew that Sylvain did not mean harm to his people or his country, and - maybe, just maybe - Claude missed some things about the land he’d left. He seemed so fully Almyran now, so far from the boy Sylvain had once known, but when they had tea he would ask offhand questions about those of their old friends who had survived. He would ask about Edelgard and Byleth, Petra and even Hubert. And Sylvain told him, because there was no reason not to.

Talking to Claude was as exciting as it had ever been, challenging and fun in equal proportions. Like the strategy games they used to play from time to time, Claude was good at surprising him with unanticipated questions or comments. He’d always been like that, had always been able to pull off surprising moves and gambits, things that seemed like they couldn’t possibly succeed.

Sylvain had been good at that too, once. But it had been a long time since he’d had someone like Claude to exert himself against - Hubert, despite his head for strategy, had never indulged in the sorts of games they’d played. He had always bent all his considerable intelligence to Edelgard’s goals, and now that Fódlan was nominally at peace that was no less important.

So Sylvain was out of practice. He wasn’t used to matching Claude’s cleverness, the twists and turns their conversations would take. It was like picking up a lance after months without practice - he remembered how it worked, but could not quite keep up at first. 

That changed over time. He found those old rhythms, began to remember how it worked. He’d come at something Claude had said sideways, ask a question that was just a little too insightful, and be rewarded by the curve of Claude’s smile, the narrowing of his eyes. He’d derail a serious conversation by trotting out a flirtatious line, just as he had in the gardens, and it nearly always made Claude laugh.

It felt good to talk to someone like that again. It felt good to be reminded of who he was, who he had once been.

He thought Claude liked it too. He thought that was why Claude kept inviting him back, why Claude seemed to want to strike up a - 

A friendship. That’s what it was, after all, even if neither of them would call it that.

Friends with the King of Almyra. Who would have thought?

But of course it wasn’t just that. How could it be, with the two of them? With Claude, who always had a scheme up his sleeve, and Sylvain who was never honest about his own heart? They were using each other, too, and they both knew it.

Claude showing favor to Sylvain changed the dynamics of the court. Many of the nobles looked at him differently, treated him differently. Some sought him out, hoping to earn a bit of the same favor - others shunned him, this clear proof of their king’s sympathy towards the land they’d been at war with for so long.

And Claude watched, taking note of the way the power in his court flowed. Those who supported this peace, those who opposed it. Likely he had already known, but their conduct towards Sylvain made it clear not only to him but to the rest of the court. Sylvain observed with some amusement as the balance shifted, as those nobles who shunned him began being quietly shunned themselves by the members of the court who supported Claude, supported the treaty, or who simply realized that it was far smarter to be on Claude’s side than against him.

Edelgard didn’t play her court like that. She didn’t need to, not with the power and control she’d claimed, but Claude’s position was more precarious and as such he needed to be more subtle. It was interesting to watch, interesting to see the shifting balance of power as Claude pulled his strings.

Sylvain didn’t mind being used as bait. Not when he knew it was happening, and not when he was profiting from it as well. The rest of the Fódlan delegation was not so willing to jump into Almyran politics,but Sylvain saw no reason to refrain. He used the resources that Claude exposed - the nobles who tried to cozy up to him, who were perhaps willing to make a few concessions in order to gain the favor of their king and his supporters. He used them with a charming smile and an easy manner, and before long the treaty truly began to fall into place.

It was a compromise on both sides. There were clauses that would anger Edelgard’s nobles, and ones that Claude’s people clearly resented. But compromise was vital for a treaty like this - everyone should walk away feeling both a little annoyed and a little pleased. As they hammered out the final version of the treaty, Sylvain began to feel like they had truly managed to accomplish something.

Because of Claude he knew who to speak to if he needed the Almyrans on the border to concede just a few more yards of land. He knew who would happily support them if promised a favorable trade agreement, and who was much more concerned with free exchange of ideas and technology. He knew which strings to pull - and so did Claude. And they both pulled their strings, Claude from atop his throne and Sylvain down in the trenches, and slowly but surely everything fell into place.

They didn’t talk about it directly, even as Sylvain had more one-on-one time with Claude. They talked around it, talked in circles, Claude dropping a name here, Sylvain mentioning someone else there. He gave Claude tidbits too: who on the delegation still distrusted Almyrans, who had acclimated well. They’d need to choose an ambassador to remain here before they left, and Claude might as well go into that with as much information as possible.

It was - thrilling, honestly. It reminded him of the days not long after the war, when he’d taken it upon himself to make peace with Sreng. It was like that, but more so, because he’d had to do that alone, with little knowledge of internal Srengi politics. Here, he had the king on his side - and Claude had grown no less clever over the years.

It didn’t make Sylvain forget the weight he carried. It didn’t heal him. But it distracted him far more effectively than his string of lovers and one night stands in Enbarr had.

And Claude was an effective distraction as well.

He always had been, with his pretty eyes and his too-clever smiles. But Sylvain, when they were younger, had preferred easier prey. People who didn’t look at him as if they could take him apart without breaking a sweat - people who didn’t see right through his smiles and clever words. Claude had always clocked him too easily.

It had been attractive in its own way, a challenge that he’d only attempted once but thought about far more often. He’d wondered, back then, if he could take Claude apart just as easily. After all, while Claude was seeing through his smiles, he was seeing through Claude’s in return. And it was intoxicating to think of - pushing Claude to the brink, making his masks fall away. It was intoxicating, too, to know that Claude would never buy any of his lines.

It had been attractive then. It was far more so now.

Despite his position (or lack thereof) in the Almyran court, Sylvain wasn’t without invitations. A number of Almyran noblewomen, and a few of the men, made no attempt to hide their interest in sampling exotic Fódlan delicacies. A handful of the others in the delegation were embroiled in quiet affairs, and a few others had at least indulged themselves in a night of pleasure. It wasn’t necessarily wise, but so long as no one seduced anyone’s wife or otherwise endangered their collective standing in Almyra, Sylvain couldn’t bring himself to care.

They expected him to do the same, he knew. His reputation was well-known, and Sylvain knew very well that if anyone was expected to seduce someone’s wife, it would be him. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have the _chance_ , either. He was adept at reading desire in someone’s eyes on him, the way they inclined their body towards his - some things were the same no matter where you were. And of course there were the more obvious advances, invitations to nighttime entertainment or quiet rendezvous.

Uncharacteristically, Sylvain continued to find himself uninterested.

Almyran women were beautiful, and so were many of the men, but it had never been simply desire that had driven Sylvain. It was much more complicated than that. He could not explain, could not unravel the tangle of his own emotions, but as it turned out - Claude had his theories.

“No one here cares about your Crest, you know,” he said with a smile, when their conversation over tea had drifted to a young noblewoman of the court who’d invited Sylvain to go riding with her. “No one here cares about Crests at all.”

“Maybe we’ll get there one day,” Sylvain said, his smile matching Claude’s. It was what Edelgard wanted, what _he_ wanted, but centuries of Crest obsession wasn’t so easy to brush away. 

“Hmm,” Claude said, and sipped his tea. His eyes on Sylvain were as sharp as ever. “I imagine it must be less fun if you don’t have that to dangle in front of them.”

“Ouch,” Sylvain said. “You don’t really think I’m that bad, do you?” He laughed it off, and Claude laughed too, but the sting didn’t fade so easily.

It wasn’t that. It had never been _only_ that, or else he’d never have bothered with men too. But he wondered how long Claude had known that was part of it. That sick thrill of pleasure and disgust he got, knowing exactly why someone wanted him, knowing it really had nothing to do with _him_. He’d wanted to hurt them for it when he was younger. Now he mostly just wanted to hurt himself, and wasn’t it nice that he could do both at the same time?

No wonder Edelgard had wanted him out of Enbarr.

Still, Claude hadn’t needed to say it. Certainly hadn’t needed to say it like _that_. He liked to flaunt his cleverness sometimes, liked to show just enough of it that it couldn’t be denied. He’d always done that, Sylvain remembered. He also remembered the moment when he realized not everyone could pick up on it, even when it seemed incredibly obvious to Sylvain.

It was moments like that when Sylvain really wanted to take Claude apart. Just what would it take to wipe that smile off Claude’s face? To make him beg? To see honest desire in his eyes?

Those thoughts were much more enticing than a night with an Almyran noble who’d barely remember his name in the morning.

Between the delicate dance of Almyran politics that filled his days and his meetings with Claude, Sylvain began to find it easier to sleep. He still woke sometimes haunted by the anger on Felix’s face, the heartbreak in Ingrid’s eyes. He probably always would. But Claude was right, he found - it helped to be able to think of what he had done. It helped to remember that just the evening before he’d successfully convinced his own delegation to ensure that the treaty contained the safe return of all Almyran prisoners. 

“Or the right to stay in Fódlan, if they want,” he’d added. Claude had been at that session, though he did not attend all of them, and Sylvain had seen his true smile, a rare and precious thing.

Perhaps Sylvain’s feelings about Claude had become a little more complicated than the simple desire to tear away his mask. That wasn’t exactly something that helped him sleep - the opposite, if anything - but it wasn’t such a terrible thought, either.

It took some weeks before the final version of the treaty was agreed upon. Weeks of negotiation, of enjoying Almyran cuisine and culture. Weeks of getting sick of his own companions and even (shockingly) coming to respect some of the ones who’d seemed most useless. Weeks of lavish meals, some of which were taken at the king’s table, and weeks of quieter, more private meetings. Weeks of Claude’s company, his clever insights and his political maneuvering.

When it was over, Sylvain knew he could indeed be proud of his work. He’d sent messages to Edelgard to ensure that the less favorable aspects of the treaty would still be approved when it arrived in her court, and Claude had managed his own court admirably. There was little fanfare at the actual signing - simply Claude poring over the text to ensure everything was just right, and then dipping his pen in ink and signing, another one of those true smiles on his lips.

And then, of course, there was a feast.

Sylvain had been in Almyra long enough now to know that Claude was happy to take any excuse to throw a party. He didn’t know enough to be sure what was traditional and what wasn’t, but over the course of the treaty negotiations there had been a large feast to celebrate the changing of the seasons, one to mark the celebration of some historical holiday, and at least four smaller ones meant to celebrate marriages, betrothals, and an important noble heir’s coming of age. There was no chance that Claude would miss such an obvious opportunity to celebrate.

He’d gotten creative with it, too. In addition to the Almyran delicacies Sylvain had grown fond of, he’d coaxed his kitchens into producing Fódlan fare. Some of the ingredients, of course, were not to be found in Almyra - and there they’d gotten creative, adding things here and making substitutions there to create entirely new dishes. Fusions of both their countries.

The entertainment was a mix, as well. Somehow Claude had managed to bring a few Fódlan musicians in. The sedate courtly melodies that were popular at the Imperial Palace would not have suited Claude’s feast at all, so instead they played things that Sylvain recognized as drinking songs, toe-tapping tunes from village dances, and even a few comedic ballads. 

He could see a certain wistfulness on the faces of his companions. They’d been away from home for months, and now the end was in sight - now they could allow themselves to miss it, to look forward to returning to familiar comforts. They could allow homesickness to creep into their hearts, and Claude had gently opened the door for that while also taking the opportunity to introduce his court to all manner of new things.

Clever, as usual. Trade between Almyra and Fódlan was a vital part of the treaty, and Claude would have no trouble starting a fashion for Fódlan goods if he kept doing things like this.

Sylvain liked it, he liked all of it, but he found himself startled. Startled because while he enjoyed the chance to eat something familiar, enjoyed hearing songs he knew all the lyrics to, he felt none of that spark of homesickness in his own heart.

He didn’t miss Enbarr. He didn’t miss Gautier.

He didn’t miss Fódlan.

He was not sure if he loved Almyra, but he loved the freedom he had there. He loved that when they whispered about him, it was because he was foreign and a favorite of the king, not because he’d been caught yet again in bed with someone else’s wife. He loved that he could be someone else here. No one really cared about who he was or what he had done. It felt - good.

Sylvain was lifting his glass to his lips when a servant bent down beside him. 

“The king would be honored if you would join him at his table,” he heard, and he felt himself smiling. He’d become used to the summons, to the moments when Claude wanted to see him. He wondered sometimes what might happen if he refused, but he never did. Claude’s presence was enough of a draw.

He swallowed his mouthful of sweet Almyran wine, and then he rose and followed the servant to Claude’s table. There was an empty space for him, one he had become accustomed to, and as he sank down into it he directed a smile at Claude.

Claude smiled back, of course. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Always,” Sylvain said. For a moment he thought they might spar with words, Claude might try to spin him in circles, but then - then he saw something different in Claude’s smiles, something softer in his eyes.

“Good,” he said, and he leaned back in his chair. For a long few moments, Sylvain watched him.

“How long have you been working for this?” he said. It was something about the relaxation in Claude’s shoulders, something about the slope of his eyebrows. Suddenly, things Sylvain had not considered before came into focus.

Claude shot a glance at him, and the corner of his lips turned up. “All my life. Since the moment I realized they hated me because they thought I didn’t belong here.” He shrugged, easy and casual. “I thought I could foster change in Fódlan, but that didn’t quite work out how I’d hoped. But though Edelgard may not have had the same goals as me, we agree on that much.” His gaze turned considering. “And you seemed to want it, as well.”

Sylvain raised his glass and shrugged. For a moment, he allowed himself to be honest. “Almyra, Fódlan, Sreng - we’re not so different. We all deserve a change to understand each other. To be at peace.” He thought of how it had felt, signing the treaty with Sreng. How he had known that despite all the damage he had done to those who had loved him, _this_ meant something.

He’d felt the same when this treaty had been signed.

“Oh,” Claude said, with a resigned sigh, “you know, Sylvain, I’ve always thought you were handsome, but I never understood the draw.” He tilted his head, smiled in a way that made Sylvain’s heart beat hard. “I understand it now.”

He couldn’t tell how serious Claude was, and so he smiled at Claude in return, his most charming version of the expression. That smile alone could make women blush, but Claude had seen it before, and he only looked amused. 

“Do you, Your Majesty?” Sylvain leaned in, his lips a hair’s breadth away from Claude’s ear. His voice was low, intimate. “I can explain it - sometimes even when people know something is bad for them, they want it anyway. It might be that you’ve developed a taste for that sort of thing.”

This was where Claude pulled away. Where Claude laughed at him, where he replied with a clever remark, slipped his way out of the conversation or upped the flirting to ridiculous levels that neither of them could take seriously. They’d danced this dance before, and all Sylvain had ever gotten out of it was that one kiss all those years ago.

This time, Claude turned to him. The hall was loud around them, lively with music and talking and laughter, but in that moment everything seemed to fall away until all that was left was him and Claude. Alone together in a spell of silence.

“I know exactly what’s good for me,” Claude said. There was a look in his eyes that Sylvain could not read, because he’d never seen it before. Not directed at him, anyway. And then he said, “Come to my room later.”

Sylvain stared. Somehow, he hadn’t expected that. He wondered if it was a joke, an escalation in the game they’d played for so long, or perhaps a move in another game that he hadn’t anticipated.

But Claude simply looked at him, quiet, his eyes assessing. There was only the hint of a smile on his lips. He was serious.

For the briefest of moments, Claude’s gaze flickered away. If Sylvain hadn’t been watching him so closely he might have missed it, might have missed that moment of uncertainty. It tugged at something inside of him, something he couldn’t put words to.

He’d wanted to tear away Claude’s masks. He didn’t know, now, what seeing Claude actually vulnerable might do to him.

He could back out easily enough. Call it a joke, continue their game, steer things back to safety. And maybe he should, because as pleasant as he was sure a night with Claude would be, Sylvain thought it might change something for him. He’d seen too much of Claude now, seen how he’d grown and changed, seen his regret and his strength. He _liked_ Claude.

He didn’t usually sleep with people he liked. But, after all, from the beginning Almyra had been a chance for something new. He just hadn’t realized it at first.

So he said, “Your wish is my command,” and he winked at Claude, and he watched the tiniest bit of tension drain from Claude’s shoulders as he laughed.

***

It was late by the time the feast ended. There were still a handful of people in the hall, celebrating until they couldn’t anymore, but most had wandered off to find their beds - or someone else’s.

Sylvain had wandered off to find the king’s.

He’d been to the royal suite before, though never further in than the well-appointed sitting room where he sometimes took tea with Claude. He’d never come this late, either, and as he knocked softly on the door he felt anticipation begin to warm him.

Claude let him in with a smile. “You came.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sylvain said, and winked. It was so easy to fall back into that pattern, to flirt and charm. It was easier still because he knew Claude didn’t take him seriously - he knew Claude could see right through him. Sometimes he’d hated that, but sometimes he found it immensely pleasing in a way that he hesitated to name.

Right now, he could only be pleased by the reminder that Claude watched him closely enough, knew him well enough, to know when he was sincere and when he wasn’t.

The door swung shut behind him, and Claude stepped close. It happened so easily, so smoothly - Sylvain leaned down, Claude rose to meet him, and then they were kissing.

It was only when their lips finally touched that Sylvain realized how long he’d wanted this. Claude was gorgeous, had always been gorgeous. He’d intrigued Sylvain even when they were young, and now that they were older, now that their entire world was different, everything about him was intoxicating. The way he smelled, the way he tasted, the way his body curved into Sylvain’s - desire sparked within Sylvain in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He’d gone through the motions. He’d enjoyed himself, back in Enbarr, leaving satisfied bodies and broken hearts in his wake. But it had been a long time since he’d lost the true desire for it, a long time since he’d _wanted_ someone so much he couldn’t think of anything else.

Right then, his thoughts were full of Claude.

His arms slid around Claude’s waist, holding him there as Sylvain deepened the kiss. Claude let him, one hand coming up to tangle in Sylvain’s hair. When they finally parted, Claude nipped at his lower lip. “You’ve gotten better at that.”

Sylvain grinned, an honest thing. He couldn’t help it. “I’d sure hope I’m a better kisser now than I was at nineteen.” He captured Claude’s mouth again, letting a hint of his hunger slip into this kiss. Afterward, Claude was breathless, and Sylvain felt rather smug.

“I’m sure you’re better at a lot of things,” Claude said, smiling. “Why don’t you show me?”

Sylvain slid one hand to the small of Claude’s back, the other down shamelessly until he could cup Claude’s ass. “You won’t have anything to compare it to. No matter how I tried, you never let me get between those pretty thighs of yours back then.”

“We’ll have to make up for that,” Claude murmured. He pressed his lips to Sylvain’s neck, aching kisses with the smallest touch of teeth that sent a shiver down Sylvain’s spine. It was just enough to make him want more, but here against the door was no place for all the things he wanted to do.

Claude seemed to be thinking the same thing. He stepped back and Sylvain let him go, knowing that he would have Claude in his arms again soon, hopefully with fewer clothes on.

“Come on,” Claude said, and he smiled at Sylvain before turning to lead him through the sitting room. They passed the low couch, passed the small and elegant table where they often took their tea. Sylvain had thought about having Claude on that couch before, wondered whether the table would stand up to having Claude bent over it. He thought of those things again, and he followed Claude.

Ahead of him, Claude pushed open one of the doors that lead from the sitting room, and Sylvain followed him into the bedroom.

It was lavish, as one might expect from the bedroom of a king, all done in golds and bright Almyran patterns. A lantern was lit on the bedside table, illuminating the room, and another rested on a desk at the other end. At the back were elegantly carved doors that opened onto a balcony, one half-open to let in the cool night air.

There were papers on the desk, with ink and pens resting atop them. There were rolled-up maps leaning against one side of it, and scattered all around the room were stacks of books. It wasn’t _quite_ chaos - it was clear that Claude at least let servants in to make sure things were straightened up - but it wasn’t far removed.

Sylvain felt himself smile at the sight of it. The sitting room had always been in perfect order, meant to be a place for Claude to entertain important visitors. This looked much more like a place where Claude might live, with his endless curiosity and his thirst for knowledge. Sylvain had never been able to stand living in a mess like this, but he could not deny how well it suited Claude.

“What?” Claude said, watching Sylvain’s gaze travel around the room.

“You’ve got half a library in here,” Sylvain said.

“I like having things to read,” Claude said, a touch defensive, and Sylvain reached out to catch him by the waist. It felt strange to see this space, it felt _personal_ , and Sylvain found himself affected. He pulled Claude to him and slid his mouth over Claude’s, kissing him until his lips opened beneath Sylvain’s, until he was breathless again.

When they separated, Claude’s eyes were dark with hunger, his lips red, his cheeks flushed. He looked delicious. Sylvain let himself tug at the hem of Claude’s tunic, sliding a hand up beneath it to brush at warm skin.

That appeared to be all the encouragement Claude needed. He stepped back, just far enough to reach up and untie the lacing at his throat. Then he peeled off his clothing, piece by piece. Sylvain found himself entranced, unable to look away.

Almyran clothing was loose and layered, and Claude’s tended to be elaborate, especially when he’d just come from an official occasion like the feast that night. Between that and his easy air of control, his familiarity with ruling, it was easy to forget that he wasn’t a large man. But watching all those layers stripped away, Sylvain was unable to ignore it now. Claude was finely muscled, clearly still keeping up with his training despite being king, his shoulders and back sculpted from years of drawing a bow, his thighs taut from wyvern riding. Even so, he was shorter than Sylvain, shoulders and hips slimmer, and Sylvain could not ignore the sudden thought that he could cover all of Claude’s body with his own if he wished.

And he did wish.

He stepped close again, drawing his hand up Claude’s side, tracing over a silvery scar there. They both had their share, and Sylvain wondered if anyone had ever pressed their mouth to Claude’s. He knew Claude didn’t often take lovers, or so palace gossip had told him.

“I’m not putting on a show,” Claude said with a grin, though really he was. What else would he call the way his back curved so perfectly as he began to pull his trousers off? “Are you planning to do this fully-clothed?”

That was rather appealing, Sylvain had to admit - he’d always been fond of having someone naked beneath him, taking them apart while he barely removed a scrap of clothing. But though he could not properly say why, that wasn’t what he wanted tonight. He wanted to be just as bare as Claude, just as easy and shameless.

“What, I can’t just look for awhile?” he said, running his eyes over Claude’s body, making it obvious and lacivious. “I was raised to believe that it’s only polite to show proper appreciation for art.”

Claude laughed and rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you’ve managed to do so well with terrible lines like that.” He hooked his fingers under the waistband of his pants, pushing them down slowly. “I could still change my mind, you know.” He was half-naked, his lashes lowered, the curve of his smile promising a million things. He wouldn’t change his mind, they both knew, but Sylvain also knew better than to push it.

“Anything but that,” he said, and he dragged his shirt off over his head. Soon he was bare before Claude, and Claude bare before him, both of their clothing in piles on the floor. Sylvain reached out, Claude already moving toward him, and then the warm line of Claude’s body was pressed against him as they kissed. He could feel Claude’s skin, warm and smooth and tempting, and because he could, he let his hands wander.

Claude liked being touched, arching against Sylvain so that his half-hard cock slid against Sylvain’s thigh. His clever hands wandered too, down Sylvain’s chest, between his legs to wrap around his rapidly-firming erection. He stroked once, almost teasing, and Sylvain’s breath left him. He wanted to push Claude down onto the bed behind them, spread his legs and make him cry out.

It occured to him that he came here for that exactly.

He tangled his fingers in Claude’s hair, pulled his head back to kiss him more deeply, and pushed him back towards the bed. When they separated, Claude grinned up at him. “Eager, aren’t you?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Sylvain said with a smirk. “You’ve been teasing me for months now. I really can’t be blamed for wanting you on your hands and knees for me.” He’d always liked this part of it - the dirty things he could say, the way his partner would take them. Some of them flushed and fluttered, but not Claude. Claude only looked at him, evaluating and hungry, and then stepped back towards the bed.

“You really think I haven’t been thinking about that too?”

It struck Sylvain then, the idea of that - Claude thinking about him, _wanting_ him, through all these long weeks of casual flirting. Sylvain was used to people wanting him, but Claude? That was something different. He’d hidden it so well - or maybe he hadn’t. He’d flirted, he’d played Sylvain’s game just as well as Sylvain ever had. But maybe he’d been playing his own game, all this time.

Sylvain should have been annoyed by that. Instead, he found it impossibly appealing.

“Get on the bed, then,” he said, and allowed himself to imagine exactly what he wanted. What he’d brought himself off thinking about. “And we can both have what we’ve been thinking about.”

Claude smiled at him. Then he turned, easy and graceful, and crawled onto his bed.

It was a big bed, fit for a king, draped in fine sheets and light fabrics. But Sylvain barely noticed it, all of his attention on Claude instead. Just like he’d said, Claude had gotten on his hands and knees, his perfect ass in the air. It was a vulnerable position, an enticing one, and Sylvain had no intention of resisting it. He wasn’t certain he could if he wanted to, not with how hard he was now.

Claude stretched, the flexible line of his body moving in a very appealing way, and retrieved something from the table next to his bed. Turning just enough, he held it out to Sylvain. A bottle of oil.

Sylvain was not enough of a fool to ignore an invitation like that. He plucked the bottle from Claude’s hand, uncapped it, came to the edge of the bed and slid onto the sturdy mattress. Close enough to curve his hand around Claude’s ass, to smack the taut flesh there and hear him gasp.

He’d always liked that, drawing a reaction from his partners. Even when nothing else appealed, that did, and with Claude it was even more true. Claude, who spun him in circles, whose smiles were as false as his. He wanted the truth, he wanted to make Claude lose himself in pleasure. And it wasn’t just that, of course.

It was the long, beautiful line of his body. It was the way he caught his breath when Sylvain touched him. It was all the moments they’d shared, the games they’d played.

He’d wanted Claude for a long time, and Sylvain was not sure that even this would put an end to that wanting.

He slid his hand over the curve of Claude’s ass, then pulled away just long enough to slick up his fingers. He wanted to be as smooth as ever, as certain as ever, but somehow this felt different. It wasn’t like the pretty noblewomen he’d coaxed into his bed, or even the occasional trysts with soldiers or lesser noblemen. There was more weight to it, more meaning, and he knew that was entirely his fault.

There was no reason that Claude should matter more than all of those bedmates, the ones Sylvain had lost count of. But somehow he did. He struggled for a moment to find his balance, and then he fell into old patterns, easy patterns.

“Look at you,” he purred, sliding his oiled up fingers between Claude’s cheeks. “Hungry for it, aren’t you? Even a king just wants to get fucked sometimes.” He pressed a finger into Claude, pushing past that initial resistance in one easy motion. Beneath him, he saw Claude’s breath stutter, but when he spoke he sounded as easy as ever.

“Of course,” Claude said, and he balanced carefully as he reached back to wrap his hand around his cock, stroking himself as Sylvain worked into him, stretched him open. “And since I’m the king, I ought to get what I want.” He pushed back, and Sylvain pressed another finger into him. 

He couldn’t pretend that Claude didn’t affect him, not anymore. He was so hard that he could barely think. All he could focus on was Claude’s back, arching before him, his firm thighs, that hard cock hanging beneath him. His clever fingers, wrapped around him. 

And that tight hole that he wanted to bury himself in.

“Fuck me,” Claude said, and he was breathless, and Sylvain couldn’t take it anymore. He slid his hands out of Claude’s hole and fumbled with the oil, slicking himself up, wasting more than he should have. Then he caught hold of Claude’s thighs and press forward, until the head of his cock was aligned with Claude’s entrance, just barely pressing into him. Teasing him.

Claude shivered beneath him. His hand fell away from his cock and braced him against the mattress, and then he looked over his shoulder. Those gorgeous green eyes caught Sylvain’s. 

“Fuck me _now_ ,” he said, and Sylvain could do nothing but obey.

He lined himself up and pressed in, wasting no time, not making any real attempt to be gentle. His excuse would have been that Claude didn’t seem to want it - but the truth was that he wanted Claude too much, that he couldn’t do anything but indulge himself anymore. He pushed into Claude, burying himself within the man beneath him until he was draped over Claude’s back, all the way inside him.

Beneath him, Claude was gasping with pleasure. Sylvain wasted no time, didn’t wait for another order from Claude. He pulled out, thrust in again, let the pleasure rush through him. And then they were fucking in earnest, Sylvain pounding into Claude’s eager body, Claude pressing back against him, encouraging him, asking him without words for more. 

So he gave it. He fucked Claude harder, listened to his gasps and moans, marveled at the way he cried out. He’d never truly seen Claude lose control before, but he was seeing it now, and it was because of _him_. He was the one doing this to Claude, the king who had Almyra in the palm of his hand, the man who had always been one step ahead. Until he hadn’t been. 

But now here he was, beneath Sylvain, taking his cock like he was made for it. Sylvain gripped Claude’s hips with one hand, gripped the back of his neck in the other, and then he pressed Claude into the mattress - hips up, cries muffled in the splendidly-woven sheets. It wasn’t power that Sylvain marveled in, exactly, but the rare experience of Claude unraveling beneath him.

He was unraveling too. How could he not? Claude was tight around him, and hot, impossibly perfect. The way he arched his back, the sounds he made, the way he moved with Sylvain. Sylvain had had plenty of skilled partners, plenty of clever lovers, but there was something about fucking Claude that was more than he’d ever dreamed of.

It was dirty, a little rough, and maybe it should have felt cheap. But there was nothing about Claude that could ever feel cheap, and Sylvain had worked impossibly hard to earn this - this thing he’d never imagined actually getting. And now they were here, and Claude was beneath him moaning on his cock and everything was perfect, everything was incredible.

Sylvain lost himself, his hands running down the long line of Claude’s back, over his scars, to clutch at his thighs and then his waist and then his neck again, touching Claude however he could. As if he could leave a mark, as if he could alter Claude in some way.

And Claude gasped beneath him and pressed back and said _more, harder_ and Sylvain gave it to him until the world around them fell away, until the only thing was Claude beneath him and Sylvain thrusting into him, bringing them both to the peak of pleasure.

Claude cried out when he came, and he tightened around Sylvain, and Sylvain was lost. He came inside Claude, the intensity of it making the world go white for a moment. He could tell himself that it was because he hadn’t been with anyone in awhile, that it was only a matter of going without for longer than usual, but he knew that wasn’t the entire truth.

It was Claude, too. It had been Claude for some time now.

After they’d caught their breath and cleaned up, Sylvain realized that Claude was not going to unceremoniously kick him out. They curled up in Claude’s bed instead, drowsy and sated, and Sylvain ran his fingers over the smooth skin of Claude’s side.

“Will you miss me when I’m gone?” Sylvain said, playful.

Claude smiled at him, wry. “Am I going to get a chance to?”

Sylvain laughed. He wondered who had given the game away. One of the other dignitaries from Fódlan? One of Claude’s many sources of information? Or maybe it had been Sylvain himself - something he’d said, something he hadn’t. Claude could read him too well, and somehow it had stopped bothering him. “Look at you, tempting an international incident by sleeping with the first Fódlan ambassador.”

It had been an easy decision for Sylvain, less so for the others in his delegation. But Gautier was doing well in the hands of the administrators he’d appointed - they could write to him here as easily as anywhere. The border with Sreng was peaceful, the ambassador there competent and intelligent. Sylvain wasn’t needed in Fódlan.

And more than that, the thought of returning was not appealing. He loved his home, he loved Fódlan. He admired the changes Edelgard was making, the progress they were all making - but when he was there, he could not help but be haunted. The memories of all those he had lost, those he had betrayed, from Miklan through to Dimitri, never quite left him. He knew if he returned he would fall back into old patterns. He would try to exorcise his demons the way he always had, the way that had never worked.

It wasn’t that Almyra had changed him, or that Claude had. He still had his regrets, his ghosts. But here he could at least _try_ to change without being weighed down by the expectations of those who knew him, or at least who knew his reputation. Once the rest of the delegation left, the only one who would know all of that was Claude.

And Claude, of all people, seemed entirely uninterested in pushing him back into old patterns.

Being here would not fix everything that he had done, everyone that he’d hurt. But he thought he might be able to find some peace, both in the work he had done and what he could still do.

An alliance between Almyra and Fódlan was no small thing.

Claude reached out, cupping Sylvain’s face, running a thumb over his cheekbone. The tenderness of the gesture twisted something deep within Sylvain, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“I’m not worried,” Claude said. “What counts as scandal here is pretty different.” He smiled. “But I’m sure you’ll figure that out yourself.”

“Impossible,” Sylvain said, matching Claude’s grin. He slid closer, reaching out to hook one hand around Claude’s waist and pull Claude to him so that he could steal a kiss, long and slow and perfect. “I’ve only got eyes for you, sweetheart.”

Claude laughed just the way Sylvain had expected him to - laughed at the ridiculousness of it, the idea that Sylvain, of all people, would swear his faithfulness to someone and then actually go through with it. The idea that Sylvain might, in fact, only want him. He didn’t for a moment think that Sylvain was telling the truth.

It was nice to know that he could still get one over on Claude, from time to time.

**Author's Note:**

> Please look at this gorgeous piece of art by Omo! I am not worthy.


End file.
